„This book takes us back to a time when philosophers and philosophy itself were sexy, glamorous, outrageous; when jazz was cool, and sensuality and erudition were entwined… Bakewell shows how fascinating were some of the existentialists’ ideas and how fascinating, often frightful, were their lives. Vivid, humorous anecdotes are interwoven with a lucid and unpatronising exposition of their complex philosophy …Tender, incisive and fair.“

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast,” wrote Ernest Hemingway in his memoir about his time in the city during the 1920s. Half a century later, it has shot to the top of French book charts in the wake of brutal attacks on Paris.

Hemingway´s A Moveable Feast („Paris – Ein Fest fürs Leben“, rororo Taschenbuch) is currently a bestseller in the French capital. Copies of the memoir have been left among the tributes to the 129 victims, reports Le Figaro. Now, you can read „Je suis en terrasse” in Social Media, a reflection of how the slaughter at cafes, a music venue and a football stadium hit the residents of the French capital.

To undermine togetherness and joyful gatherings has very often been on the agenda of life-defeating forces, anti-demoratic circles, anti-hedonistic calvinism, sociopaths. It’s illuminating to read Barbara Ehrlichmann’s book Dancing In The Streets – The History Of Collective Joy as a broadminded reminder to never stop creating joyous rituals of togetherness in a fucked-up world.

Dancing may be one way to dive into a gem of genre-crossing rock/techno-culture dating back to 1996. Now, Underworld’s SECOND TOUGHEST OF THE INFANTS is reissued and it works well on many levels: making love, drinking red wine, dreaming in colours, inventing dance steps in your mind. Believe me, it’s also good for driving in crappy weather. It has a dark edge, this record, surreal vocals to hang on to, and is a living, breathing thing. Quote: „Air Towel is a psychotropic trip through the skyscrapers whilst Blueski gently makes itself heard with an almost Afro-rhythm, warming us up with desert sensations and sunshine endorphin’s.“

I do not know if humpback whales have their own dance rituals, but nearly everybody will remember that a long time ago, a record flooded the market, a bestseller that contained, well, just humpback whale songs. It was a trance-inducing experience for many people, and now David Rothenberg and Michael Deal have issued new songs from this special genre of „sea shanties“. At first listen, one might think, in moments, of heavily treated saxophone sounds, but then the bizarre strangeness and underwater spheres take over. Melancoly is definitely not a privilege of the human species.

The world will always be a place for madness. On a grand scale and in dark corners. Weeks ago, I stumbled upon a book of the „true crime-genre“, and reading that one within three days and nights, was like entering the most bizarre Tokyo film-noir scenario. The shocking thing: it is all true. Richard Lloyd Parry’s People Who Eat Darkness: Love, Grief and a Journey into Japan’s Shadows is not for the faint of heart. Brilliant.

And in London it doesn’t much matter where you are, you’re there. There is a Périphérique but it ain’t the fuckin M25. Shapes and shadows move in in and out. Your own. Nobody has a reality, only a perspective. Psychogeography is a ghost hunt, not a fact hunt. A sacrament. London is anarchy and chaos and „God Save the Queen. She ain’t no human being“ and you are dwarfed by skyscrapers and humbled by ordinariness. Total fucking ordinariness. There’s a light everywhere in the London city-state that doesn’t bright like this anywhere else on the island. You could be in Bayswater in the shadow of the Westway or praying to the grey clouds above Trafalgar Square. [They say if you stand in Trafalgar Square long enough, you will meet everyone you know. Unless they’re a pigeon. Traf Sq. is a fucking pigeon dispersal zone these days. Rest in peace Preep.] Or you could be on a Tube train to Elephant and Castle wondering why TFL ain’t changed the upholstery on the seats in so long. The moquette on those motherfuckers is shot to fuck. You wouldn’t see that on the Central Line. Or maybe you would. Who knows. Fuck knows. Paint flakes and places change. Maybe that train just has better iration norf of the river.

And.

Coffee is a river. A river that can’t be held back.

And.

Paris. Paris on Wednesday‎, ‎26‎ ‎November‎ ‎2014 ‎at 9.24am.

And that stretch of the Boulevard de Rochechouart is one of the coolest places in the world. Pound shops, repair shops, news kiosks selling Les Inrockuptibles, total fucking ordinariness, and dreamlike.

– Where do you come from?
– West Germany. And your accent tells me you’re from The East Coast.
– I couldn’t tell the difference hearing me between East and West Coast.
– Brooklyn?
– How do you know?
– By intuition. So you’re a tourist in Paris.

– Kind of. What’s your favourite music?
– Oh, I have to give that a thought. (Silence) Hipster music, I think.
– For example?
– The Churches.
– Don’t know them. You wanna a life-changing experience, musicwise?
– Okay.
– Listen to old records from the Go-Betweens, they were from Australia.
– Will do. And they have done what?
– Anti-hipster-music.
– (The woman laughs)

Michael, we do share the same crêpe in the city of Paris. You prefer the classics there, I know, and the savory buckwheat galettes filled with organic ingredients are real burners, but the dessert crêpes with Japanese touches (yuzu, ginger) put Breizh Café head and shoulders above the rest. Check the chalkboard for more exotic, seasonal specials – my recent favorite was a seared sea scallop and samphire galette filled with leek & tarragon cream. You can begin your meal with briny oysters, finish with a salted butter caramel crêpe, sip artisanal hard ciders throughout the meal, and still escape for less 20€ per person. All this makes Breizh a popular and affordable luxury, one that you need to reserve in advance. And you are so right, they do have the best ciders of the world, it’s from a small town in the Bretagne, and you can’t buy it in the shops. The heat is nearly unbearable at the moment. Time stops in its tracks. I love the new Chris Stapleton record, „Traveler“. It’s more on the Country side of Americana, but far away from the usual overdose of Nashville sugar. Catherine.